The Clockwork Juliet
by Amelie delaCroix
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is not one to mope, even after his own death. Luckily, he has an insane gunsman, an army of automatons and an infuriating gypsy to deal with. Oh my. Steampunk!Sherlock S/S
1. these violent delights have violent ends

Hey guys! So I really enjoyed AGoS, and was inspired to write a story featuring Simza (I loooove Noomi Rapace), since there aren't too many on this site. I also really admire the steampunk genre, and wanted to incorporate this aspect with Sherlock Holmes. :) I hope you like this chapter. Please keep in mind that this story is just for fun, it's definitely not a piece of literary genius! That being said, I would really appreciate any and all reviews, and they make me update faster.

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><p>"Hows you gettin' on cocky?" The moving man this morning, said whilst taking two bookends (wedding gifts) from the house to the carriage.<p>

Terrible business, as his father would say.

Buck up, John, tomorrow is yet another day. You can't possibly save them all! His commander, a cheerful fellow and rarity in the British Army.

'I believe', pondered Watson, 'that this came after a particularly bad day in India. Too much blood and not enough morphine.' That thought, as morose and trite as it first appeared, seemed to successfully define this past year. From a desperate train car, to a snowy mountain ledge, to a stuffy Brighton sick room. He was beginning to feel a little bit cursed.

In two cases, the end results had been better than expected. Then again, one assumes no less when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. (Though it was annoyingly difficult to remove the intricately-carved tombstone, and explaining the whole situation to a disapproving priest proved equally troublesome).

Mary, however, was no Sherlock. She was an amazing woman in her own right; strong, bright, and capable. One husband was usually enough for a woman, but she, delightfully independent, had seemingly gathered _two_.

Which is why the fever came as a surprise, and even though Mary had a doctor and a detective at her bedside, there would be no miraculous recovery. No Holmes-esque resurrection or hangman's pardon. Watson, shaken by these thoughts, put on the 'stiff upper-lip' he'd forgotten about. Without Mary, the house at 4 Cavendish Place was empty, save for bad memories. It was time to move on, and a certain friend had offered lodgings at Baker Street for cheap rent.

Though he lacked Holmes' incessant observational skills, and possessed his own brand of emotional detachment, it remained as no surprise that Moving Day was particularly difficult. It was his life, after all. Or at least, it _was_ his life. The descent back to bachelorhood, the sudden loss of Mary, both were troubling and shocking. He deserved the time to mourn and readjust.

But this ... this was taking it to the extreme.

In the back of his mind, Watson acknowledged that standing in front of his former home, literally remaining frozen solid for eight hours – observing pigeon mating, the daily business of squirrels and boring human activity – was nothing short of ludicrous. Life was unfair, it was time to move on. The cold and dark were creeping in, and a Baker Street residence awaited him. These convincing thoughts had been running through the doctor's mind for hours, and yet he had not moved. He continued to stare at 4 Cavendish Place from the park across the street as if, through glaring, he could somehow change the past.

Frankly, this was all a bit tedious for one Sherlock Holmes. Whom, after the overwhelming success of indoor camouflage, had branched out the collection. The word 'branched' being a pun, as the detective was currently posing as a convincing bush. 'Absolutely ridiculous,' he thought, as muscles and limbs cramped in uncomfortable places. 'This cannot be allowed to go on'.

Just as Holmes was debating his great reveal, no doubt planned to terrify his partner and instigate movement towards Baker Street, a flutter of activity near 5 Cavendish Place caught his well-trained eyes. Likewise, the same motion was perceived by Watson a moment later. A messenger had broken the stillness of the street, a spry young boy – probably eleven or so – hopped up the stairs and rang the bell. A moment passed, then another, and finally the door opened to reveal an equally small girl. An exchange, a letter for a coin, the door shut.

That should have been the end of it. It would have been, had there been anyone else but Holmes and Watson outside, but they stayed. Why? An odd sensation in the air, let's call it, a feeling that something big was about to happen. Five minutes passed, followed by five more, and dusk continued to settle in around them. The door reopened with a loud _thump_. The girl appeared, head down, shoulders up, wearing a heavy coat and striding blindly down the street and around the corner. It seemed like mere seconds later when a carriage rounded the very same intersection, and stopped in front of the very same house.

When three large men emerged, bowler hats and patched coats signalling a dangerous sort, Holmes decided that disguise was no longer appropriate.

"My dear Watson, I do believe there's a game afoot." He whispered.

Flinching, the doctor's hand automatically went towards his pistol. "Dear God, Holmes, how long have you been standing there?" He demanded, indignant and embarrassed.

"Long enough to notice your obvious emotional distress, yet not quite long enough to ascertain their motives." He briefly indicated the three thugs with a head jerk. Their pretence of polite visitation was clearly abandoned after a moment's wait. A shifty, slight fellow had moved into lock-picking position. (Yet, Holmes noticed, he had very little natural talent for the task).

"We could just leave, you know. There's no need to jump feet first into every single -"

"Stop! Right there. That's your problem, Watson." Holmes broke in, gesticulating rather wildly. "You're positively morose. It's disgusting. We're sitting here, watching a house being burglarized and doing nothing. Deplorable." The men, having successfully breached the front door, had filed into the household. The doctor felt a small twinge deep inside his conscience, though, after literal hours of observation, he was fairly certain the home was deserted.

"Fine," he responded with a sigh, "what is your master plan? Go in, guns blazing, make a scene, a daring escape and ...?"

Holmes didn't answer. His attention, in contrast, was fixed on the house. The gentlemen had already returned through the entrance, no evidence of their looting in sight. They seemed almost ... rushed, as they jumped into the carriage and immediately sped off.

"Odd."

It was then that the house exploded, propelling Holmes and Watson backwards and searing an unattractive hole in the detective's bush-like hat.

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><p><em>Approximately twenty minutes earlier<em>

Contrary to the static duo standing amidst the foliage across the street, 5 Cavendish Place was relatively bustling with activity. Amelia Lovelace was in the middle of a full scale anxiety attack, complete with pacing, palm-sweating and the occasionally tug of hair. A small automaton wheeled around her legs, trying to complete its daily dusting, all disturbances aside.

"I knew it!" She whispered fervently, hands clasped together tightly, as in prayer. "I knew something was wrong. I _know_ something is wrong." A clock struck seven beside her ear, causing her to let out a small squeak and flinch away from the dancing bird, which appeared every hour for its performance.

"Where _is_ he?"

Finally, the doorbell echoed throughout the empty corridors, and Amelia rushed to the front entrance. She smoothed out her hair and skirts, trying to look less significantly less worried than she actually was. 'Please, please, please, let it be papa.' She thought, ignoring the fact that he had a key – nevermind the doorbell. She wrenched open the wooden barrier to reveal a dirty-looking boy, her own height but probably younger.

"Evenin' missus Lovelace, I 'ave a letter for ya, from Robert Lovelace." Said the messenger, smiling through crooked teeth. Amelia quickly dug through her pockets and handed over a coin, taking the letter with shaking hands and quickly shutting the door. She turned around and leaned her back against it, her breath was coming in nearly audible gasps while her fingers fumbled with the envelope.

_My darling Amelia,_

_I'm sorry for hiding this from you, but things have spiralled so completely out of hand. There has been someone watching us, but the plans in motion are more nefarious than we could have dreamed. You must leave the house immediately – take the train to Aunt Elizabeth in Brighton. Stay one night at the Dancing Dove if this letter arrives after dark. Take the money you need from my cash box._

_My dear daughter, there is one thing I must ask of you before you leave London. Take page 42 of your favourite book and mail it to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as well as the second letter in this envelope. I'm afraid that many lives depend upon it._

_All my love forever,_

_R.L._

She stood, frozen, against the front door. Her fingers trembled, taking both letters from the envelope and tucking them into her pocket, letting fear completely take over for one moment. When she moved a second later, it was pure survival instinct. The knot of anxiety which had started in her stomach was readily expanding, and she knew someone was coming.

She bolted. Taking off from the dead wood and running up the staircase to her room, grabbing her old book bag on the way. Off came the stuffy dress, as fast as shaking fingers could undo the knots, on went her more modern kit of stockings, boots, short ruffled skirt, blouse and leather corset. She piled underthings into her bag, along with a small portrait and toiletries. Leaving her room and sprinting into her father's study, Amelia scanned the packed bookshelves.

_Take page 42 of your favourite book..._

'He could only mean this one,' She thought, pulling a large hardcover from the wall and placing the entire book into her bag. She spared another moment for the cash box under her father's mahogany desk, and then she was back down the stairs and out the door. As Amelia quickly walked away from her house, her consciousness slowly began to emerge from the adrenaline-induced haze. There was regret there, mingled with a plethora of other emotions: sadness, confusion, fear.

She had only just rounded the corner and began down the second block, heading towards the Dancing Dove, – her father knew the owner and they'd often have dinner there –, that she heard the explosion. The ball of dread in her stomach finally overwhelmed her. Amidst the screams and the opening of doors, her quick pace turned into a full-out run.

She sprinted down the street with only one thought in mind, 'find Sherlock Holmes.'

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><p>Hope you enjoyed it! Please review! I should have the next chapter up soon. :)<p> 


	2. and in their triumph die

I'm back again! :) This chapter isn't quite as long as the previous one, since I needed somewhere good to end. Buttttt, Sim will finally be making an appearance soon! Hope you all enjoy.

Also, a big thanks to Kai for a lovely review. You really pushed me to get this down on (virtual) paper. Lovers of steampunk unite!

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><p>"What. The. Devil."<p>

It must have only been a minute, judging by the silence still permeating after the explosion, that he was unconscious. The shocked stillness was slowly broken by footsteps running in either direction, the opening of doors, muffled yells.

Oh dear, not muffled. 'It seems like the eardrums are a bit shaken.' Sherlock thought, easing into a sitting position and surveying the scene in front of him. He caught some wild gesticulation and turned to see Watson recovering. He was mouthing something ...

"WHAT?" The detective brushed off his partner's thoroughly displeased look. "GOOD GOD, WATSON, TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE." Holmes staggered to his feet and began towards 5 Cavendish Place, or what was left of it. He walked rather like a drunken sailor on leave, though an annoying ringing in his ears signalled the return of his hearing.

Analysis: the house was barely standing. The roof was still in place, although three of the four walls had suffered extensive damage. The second floor was threatening to collapse, but the furniture he could glimpse seemed relatively unharmed – suggesting a small concussive blast on the first floor. Surely it would've killed anyone within a metre, but judging by the home's emptiness...most likely a warning to the occupants. There was but one problem: the three thugs, assuming they had planted the bomb, had smuggled it in without his knowledge.

A bomb small enough to escape his well-trained eyes. Interesting. He must know more.

"Holmes! For the love of ... Holmes!" He turned in time to see a limping Watson walking after him. The cane was forgotten on the grass, or blown behind some foliage.

"Doctor, I'm a little bit occupied..."

"Oh, so _now_ you can hear me."

"Don't be dense now, Sir. The game has begun, and a case is just what you need!"

"Shockingly, I don't believe..." he trailed off, looking in wonder as Sherlock slipped through a hole in the front door, attracting attention from the newly-arrived gawkers. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"A bomb, Watson. A type I've never encountered before, exploded just next door to your former residence. A curiosity which simply must be explained." With that, Holmes disappeared into the wreckage, seemingly unconcerned with its structural soundness. Biting back a curse, Watson hobbled after him, somewhat hampered by the debris. By the time he had fully entered the house, the detective was already peering at an article in the rubble – straining his eyes against the dark.

"The blast patterns and charring indicate that this was the starting point. An oddly contained explosion, all in all. Although, I have never seen a bomb quite like this." He gestured at a burnt half-sphere, presumably made of metal. "The smell of gunpowder is in the air, but there's no evidence of a fuse, only these." He carefully picked up a small, tarnished cog – like something you would find in a watch.

"A clockwork explosive, brilliant, you were completely right – this is _exactly_ what I needed." Watson huffed, looking around the front hall with disinterest. "I'm wondering one thing: how did those thugs know the house was deserted? That girl had left only a few seconds earlier."

"Simple, Watson. Three men, one to clear upstairs, one for downstairs, and another to set the bomb. In and out in thirty seconds. I do believe this was extensively planned." He arose abruptly, heading out a rather large hole in the back wall, no doubt avoiding the growing crowd on the front lawn. Once again, the limping doctor was left hurrying after him.

"Did you know the occupants of this household, Watson?"

"I never spoke with them, other than a 'good morning'. I do believe there was only the father, daughter and a housekeeper."

He could hear Holmes huff, probably mumbling about the incompetence of common folk. "Then we shall find your cane, head home and begin!" He clapped once, and laughed maniacally.

"Begin what?"

"The _game_. Good God, Watson, I swear you don't listen to a thing I say."

"You do realized you're still dressed as a charred bush, right?"

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><p>'Just keep walking, just keep walking, keep your head down...' Amelia silently repeated this mantra to herself, walking swiftly in the direction of the Dancing Dove. Her book bag, slung diagonally across her body, thumped against the side of her leg.<p>

_Take page 42 of your favourite book and mail it to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as well as the second letter in this envelope._

'But why? What can those _possibly_ mean?' These thoughts occupied her mind while she strode towards the pub/inn combination. Truthfully, the Dancing Dove was a rundown dive in East London, not exactly a great place to stay. It was her father's friendship with the owner, Marty Cooper, which had kept them going back for dinners – when Mrs Bingem had her days off. Thank goodness that today was one of those occasions.

Hopefully the long-lasting relationship would be some help to her now. She rounded a corner and saw the faded sign in the distance, barely discernible in the fading light. It was nearly dark, and the streets weren't safe for a lonely girl. It was a relief when she finally arrived at the worn-out, wooden building.

'Or...maybe not so much.' Opening the door revealed a large cast of motley characters, no doubt the usual suspects, but they seemed more intimidating without her father around. She managed to squeeze in without making a scene, and stayed to the shadows before spotting Marty in the crowd. He was behind the bar, distributing drinks to thirsty patrons.

"Amelia!" He bellowed, finally noticing her form at the bar's end. He glanced left and right, obviously looking for signs of her father. Confusion was etched into his face, as well as surprise. "But where's your pa?"

"We had a bit of a falling out over my Maths homework! If you can believe it," She pasted a smile onto her face, hoping to make the far-fetched story some degree of reasonable. It was thin, she admitted to herself. "In any case, I would really appreciate a room for the night, if you're not full."

Marty stared at her for more than one uncomfortable moment. Amelia was certain that he would send her home, probably with some form of accompaniment. Then, as if a light bulb had been turned off in his brain, he nodded once. It sent shivers down her spine. "Aye lass, that I can do." He called over a serving girl and sent them both upstairs, with specific instructions to give Amelia the eighth room.

"'Ere you go, Miss. Would you be wantin' dinner?" She left at Amelia's refusal, finally granting her some peace. As soon as the door closed, and privacy reigned, Amelia pulled out both letters and studied them closely once more. The note addressed to her was still frustrating, its meaning remained elusive. The second letter was another matter entirely. It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes, and written in a strange cipher she had never seen before.

In other words, it was absolutely no help.

She moaned, throwing her body onto the bed and her face into the pillow. She would actually have to find the mysterious man and ask for his help, surrendering her father's fate into his (questionable) hands. Amelia remembered the detective from several fantastic stories published in the penny dailies. She believed them to be too...odd, to be true.

Her face felt at home in the pillow, which hid tears and drool alike. However, the more she became conscious of her breathing, the more she noticed another, harsher gasping nearby. The hair on the back of her neck quickly stood on end, and a chill passed down her spine for the second time that night.

'No,' she told herself, 'there is definitely not someone else in this room. No, there is definitely not someone else right outside the door, waiting for the perfect opportunity. No, dear God, no.' The braver part of her soul wanted to jump up, to take action, but the overwhelming majority of Amelia wanted to sink deeper into the bed.

'Get up, you bloody trollop. Get up and get out.' Screamed every survival-oriented gene in her soul. In a blink, she became that adrenaline-fueled fury from 5 Cavendish Place – rolling off the bed and grabbing her bag and letters with one smooth movement. Her dilated eyes caught sight of the window, zero-ing in on her only means of escape. 'Go!'

Just then, she heard the sound of her door breaking open.

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><p>Please review!<p> 


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